Squidilarities
by Arkylie Killingstad
Summary: "They're masters of disguise, hiding in plain sight by shifting the color and even the texture of their skin. Nearly the best camouflage on earth." "Which you're comparing to my taste in suits?" "You're a hacker who spoofs IP addresses to sneak into digital places, and an actor who exploits social expectations to sneak into physical ones. You're only seen when you want to be seen."


When Reese leans in over Harold's shoulder, Harold stiffens instinctively, hands stilling on the keyboard as his mind races through the many possible scenarios about to unfold, and the various countermeasures he might need to employ in order to fend off each one. Physical attack: unlikely. Physical affection: far more likely, but equally unwelcome. Attempt to plant a bug, to get at his data, or a tracker, to follow him home: Surely Reese would be less obvious about it; the same with trying to drug him.

Each scenario unfurls a list of options in his head, contingencies he's set up in case Reese turns out to be another Dillinger… or worse. Of course, he's pretty confident about Reese, in a way that he'd never been about the man's predecessor, but still: He'd trusted in the wrong man once, and it had almost cost him everything.

The first time John brought him tea, Harold had forced himself to accept graciously, trying not to give away the rapid beating of his heart as sense-memories rose to the surface, his brain reminding him of the last time he'd accepted a cup of tea from his agent's hand. Giving away his terror over such a simple gesture would be showing Reese one of his weak points, and he refused to be that vulnerable; he'd barely known the man a few months at the time. By now, Reese's random acts of thoughtfulness have become something like routine… not that Harold doesn't analyze each one to death, trying to suss out any hint of danger in case he needs to bolt.

But, out of all the scenarios that race through his head, not one of them concludes with what Reese places beside his monitor: a bizarrely colorful stuffed octopus.

Without so much as an explanation, Reese strolls off and sprawls across the sofa, opening the copy of The Murder of Roger Ackroyd that he is already halfway through. (It's the third Agatha Christie he's gone through this month; when Harold called attention to the trend, Reese called it "research.") There's silence for a good long minute before Harold concludes that Reese isn't going to explain unless he actually asks.

Fine. "What… is this, Mr. Reese?" Harold asks, dubiously lifting one leg of the garish, gangly, googly-eyed monstrosity that now sits atop the stack of reference material that he's gathered for the day.

"It's an octopus," Reese replies with a shrug.

"I can see that. What is it doing on my desk?"

"I spotted it last week, while I was tailing that Bloomtech guy. Came back the next day and bought it. Figured we could use a mascot."

Harold rubs at his temple. "Even supposing that we did require some form of 'team mascot'—and I do not concede that we do—an octopus seems quite the bizarre choice."

"Oh?" Reese asks, using his best faux-innocent voice. "You don't see the similarities?"

"Similarities?" Harold asks, feeling quite adrift in the conversation.

The plush octopus just stares at him.

"Between it and you," Reese clarifies.

"Oh." Harold sighs; another of Reese's digs at the eccentricities of his employer. "Well, I suppose you're about to enlighten me."

When Reese's smirk gets a little wider, Harold frowns. "You've been waiting for this all day, haven't you?" Hell, the man has probably done _research_.

"To begin with," Reese says, "octopuses are—"

"Octo_podes_," Harold can't help correcting, even though he knows that it's only one of several legitimate plurals.

"_Octopodes_, then. They're masters of disguise, hiding in plain sight by shifting the color and even the texture of their skin. Nearly the best camouflage on earth."

"Which you're comparing to my taste in suits?"

"C'mon, Finch. You're a hacker who spoofs IP addresses to sneak into digital places, and an actor who exploits social expectations to sneak into physical ones. Dress up like a janitor or an IT tech or a random businessman, and practically everyone ignores you. You're only seen when you _want_ to be seen."

"'Master of disguise' in the more civilized places, perhaps; I rather think I'd stand out in the sort of criminal underworld you've been targeting lately."

Reese grins. "Oh, I'm sure if you found reason to do so, you could concoct some sort of believable alias, even for that. Criminal mastermind or something. Have a little faith in yourself."

"A little faith that I could impersonate a… a mob boss. Was this your plan when you taught me how to pick locks?" He didn't mean it too seriously, but still… the thought of trying to build himself a criminal persona, an alias specifically for sneaking into the darker side of humanity, was… unsettling. How far would he have to fall for that to become some sort of reasonable plan?

"Oh," Reese continues, voice low but with that undercurrent of mirth, "and many of them are quite colorful."

Harold can't help but glance down at his sleeve, which is, today, dark teal. "Coming from someone who sticks to a monochromatic palette, I suppose that's a compliment."

Huffing lightly, Reese brushes the comment aside. "They're among the most intelligent creatures on the planet; they can navigate complex structures and readily pick up new skills."

"Oh?"

"They can get in anywhere." Reese is sitting forward now, eyes shining, as though he's feeding off Harold's flusterment. "Learn how to open childproof lids. Slip through the tiniest crack, as long as their beak fits. Oh, and they've got a beak, Finch," he adds, voice warm and amused.

"I see."

"There's a tale of an aquarium whose crabs kept getting eaten, and it took them a while to figure out that the octopus in the adjoining tank had been sneaking out and snacking on the crabs before finding its way back to its own tank, with no one the wiser. Sound anything like you and your digital exploits?"

"I'm not exactly a predator, Mr. Reese."

"Well, that's one point of commonality that you don't share. But an octopus is really quite vulnerable to most predators. That's why they use stealth attacks. And, when they feel threatened, they've got a handy distraction to throw at the problem so they can just dart away and hide."

"Uh-huh."

"And their arms are _fascinating_. See, most animals have one brain, a central location for all their neurons. But octopus neurons are spread throughout their body, mostly in the arms. So their arms can act independently, and even keep moving when they've been cut off from the rest of the body. Now, I wonder if I know anyone who's crafted one or more autonomous extensions of himself—"

"I get your implication, Mr. Reese."

"I've been thinking over the similarities for days now, Finch, and I gotta admit, there's only one key difference I can see."

Harold sucks in a breath. "All right, let's get this over with."

"You're not quite as graceful as an octopus."

"…_That's_ the difference you've picked up on?"

"Well, it's true," Reese says, faux-defensively. "You have a lot of admirable qualities, Finch, but grace isn't one of them. Er, I mean, gracefulness. You're certainly gracious enough."

"Anything else?" Harold asks, doing his best to bury his feelings about things related to the word 'grace.'

"Nah, I think that covers it."

"Well. I suppose I can appreciate the logic."

"So… can it stay?"

"Stay?" Harold blinks at the octopus, still staring at him with its unmoving googly eyes.

"Well, if it's going to be our mascot—do I need to move it somewhere else?"

Harold sighs, and places the octopus off to the side, snuggling in next to his monitor. "No, Mr. Reese, the octopus can stay."

(After he's checked it for bugs, of course. But that can wait until the evening.)

* * *

_Shout out to the two series that taught me far too much about octopodes: **TierZoo** (The Optimal Number of Arms) and **zefrank** (True Facts about the Octopus)._


End file.
